Unfit to Serve
by The Mystic Doctor
Summary: It made no sense, not even to her. Grell was a very poor butler, as any fool could see, and people had already started to talk. So why in the world was he still here? Features Grell in butler form only, as well as very slight Grell/Madam Red, if you wish to view it as such.
1. Unfit to Serve

**IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ THIS NOTE!**

**I just want all readers to be informed that the true Grell does NOT appear in this story, so please don't expect him to show up. I am saving you the disappointment now. What I wanted to do was have some fun imagining what it would be like if the persona Grell used while in disguise was the real him. I guess you could say that this is somewhat of an AU. It was interesting because once I took my idea and flew with it, I kept having to remind myself that even though some readers may believe he (and Madam Red, for that matter) to be out-of-character at parts, it isn't necessarily true because this form of Grell wasn't genuine to begin with. Therefore, I took a lot of liberties, so some people may like it and some may not. In any case, it was a fun story to write. I hope you will enjoy it.**

/

Contrary to popular belief, Madam Angelina Durless did not exactly lead an easy, worry-free life, despite being an upper-class lady whose image seemed to suggest it. She did, after all, hold the well-being and often the lives of London's citizens in her hands each day. She also continually studied medicine in order to remain well-informed of new findings, and in addition to all of this she was also one of the rare females who had dared to attempt, and _succeeded_ in, obtaining the license that earned her the title of doctor. That last detail in particular was something that placed her under constant scrutiny by both her stuffy male colleagues and the general public, and therefore placed considerable pressure on her to keep proving her worth.

Most of the time, though, this career was nothing she believed she couldn't handle. She had been working at it for quite a few years now, after all, and the complaints were few and far between, so she had to be doing _something_ right. However, these last few days at the hospital had not treated the clever and well-to-do Madam Red very favorably, presenting extra challenges and obstacles she hadn't foreseen, and besides which, she had also been troubled recently over the shadowy activities of her young nephew, who lived outside of the city. She was exhausted and had many irritable moments, only wishing to distract herself from her misfortunes and hoping things would soon go back to normal. At least aside from work and Ciel, the only things she needed to concern herself with were the latest fashions, and attending galas, and who was supposedly having an affair with whom –

_CRASH_.

Her eyes immediately flickered over the lawn and toward the kitchen window.

…oh yes. And him.

Pretending she hadn't heard the sound, and hoping that her current guests would have the decency to do the same, Madam Red straightened up a bit and turned to said guests smilingly. The three of them were sitting at the outdoor tea table in the backyard on this warm day – she and two other noblewomen, all garbed in colorful and refined spring dresses. The other ladies were Samantha and Clara, and two examples of those in the social circle within which Madam Red shared and learned of all the most interesting news. Never mind that some of that news couldn't always be confirmed; when a possibility existed, it was wrong _not _to speculate on it. They had been in the middle of having one of these discussions as they waited for the tea to be served. _If _the tea would ever make it out of the house, Madam Red thought, mildly cross. Judging by the crash she'd just heard, Grell was experiencing the usual difficulty in getting anything done.

Unfortunately, both of the visitors were casting glances toward the house, their expressions ones of disdain. Both of them had met Grell before and had witnessed his blunderings firsthand more than once, giving them a pretty good inkling of what the source of the noise was. Madam Red had to strain to keep the smile on her face.

Samantha sighed and shook her head. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but is he progressing any?" she asked, looking at her hostess and gesturing with her chin to the house.

Madam Red hesitated, but only for an instant. "He is, but…rather slowly," she pretended to admit. In truth, she hadn't seen any real change at all. Yes, Grell always tried his best and sometimes even learned from his mistakes, but he seemed unable to improve his coordination or shake away the occasional distraction. Madam Red was not about to confess that she was able to prepare tea with less confusion than him, despite having done it only a handful of times in her life.

Clara raised her eyebrows. "It seems to me that he needs much more training. Though, I suppose there's nothing one can do if one simply doesn't have the talent for a certain job. By now you'd think he'd have quit this profession and gone on to something else."

None of the things Madam Red could have said in reply to that would have felt sufficient enough. What could she say – that the humble, awkward man was a terrible job-seeker, or that he _had _tried everything else, or that she just pitied him? They were all horrible excuses, and they all made it sound as though she was going to great lengths to defend him…and the last one made her sound much too soft, even though when it came down to it, it was true.

"It's beyond me," she finally answered with a nonchalant shrug, getting ready to revert back to the previous topic of conversation or possibly start a new one. It didn't seem like it would be too easy, however; movement from the window caught her eye and she turned her head in time to see Grell practically fly across the kitchen. He seemed to be rushing in the direction of the cabinets, his long hair catching the wind and a harried expression on his face. Madam Red bit her lower lip as she watched his elbow knock against a small aluminum dish sitting on the table and send it tipping to the floor, producing a clang that was thankfully muffled. Grell spun around and stooped down out of sight to retrieve it, reappearing a moment later and then moving out of view.

Hiding a frustrated sigh, Madam Red faced her guests once again. Both of them had also been watching the scene through the window, but when their hostess redirected her attention back to them they quickly averted their eyes to different parts of the yard. After a few seconds of uneasy silence, save the chirping birds and rustling leaves, Samantha cleared her throat. "So Anne, you are planning to attend the garden party this weekend, aren't you…?"

Grell slid his hands under the edges of the tea tray sitting on the counter and slowly lifted it up. He had spent the last fifteen minutes preparing the chamomile concoction, which, no matter how many times he was told otherwise, was tricky to get just right. There always seemed to be some sort of miniscule detail he missed when preparing tea, and it didn't help that he was supposed to memorize every little thing concerning the different types, like which one was most bitter or which one should be steeped longest. Why did it matter so much anyway? Why did people insist on drinking different kinds of tea all day long? It certainly wasn't making his life any easier.

But if that was what his lady required, then that was how it must be, Grell reminded himself as he walked carefully across the kitchen holding the tray. And at this time of day during this season, she usually preferred her chamomile. He was almost sure that it was perfect this time and in a few minutes he would know for certain, when the ladies waiting outside took some. Before leaving the room he caught a faint glimpse of his reflection in one of the shiny chrome pans hanging on the wall. His clothes were clean and _mostly_ wrinkle-free (and also devoid of the tea stains that occurred every now and then), his hair was tidy, and his glasses had been polished. He certainly _looked_ the part, as he always did; now if only he was good at acting it.

He must think positively.

Taking a deep, slow breath, he opened the door leading out to the yard and walked out into the sunlight, tightly clutching the tray in an effort to keep his hands from trembling. The women at the table looked up as he approached, one of Madam's friends even bothering to flash him a false smile which then vanished as quickly as it came. Grell set down the tray, and the conversation abruptly stopped as three pairs of critical eyes immediately scanned its contents. Aside from the porcelain tea set patterned with blue roses, there were three small dishes holding a petite slice of pound cake each (the cake having been bought by Grell from the bakery that morning since he could not bake to save his life). After a few moments' silence, Madam Red looked at him expectantly, slight impatience in her crimson eyes.

His shoulders jumped a fraction as he realized what he was forgetting, and he spoke up in a hurry. "Er, today's tea is an aromatic blend of chamomile, accompanied by pound cake." He avoided their eyes, the visitors' in particular, as he set about pouring the tea into the exquisite cups. To his relief, none of it splashed, though some of it did come close. Grell glanced over at the sugar bowl and creamer as he put down the teapot; he had learned long ago that he was supposed to allow the drinkers to add their own preferred amounts, which was why he hadn't put in any himself beforehand. He folded his hands in front of him and inched his way over to stand quietly behind his lady.

He watched the three of them pass around the cream and sugar and then stir the sweet condiments into their tea. He watched as one after the other they raised their drinks and took a sip, searching their faces carefully for the slightest hint of disgust. He was beginning to think that he had at last completely succeeded in the execution of afternoon tea when suddenly Clara sputtered over the rim of her teacup. Grell visibly tensed, while Madam Red and Samantha looked at their companion in something like alarm.

Clara pursed her lips and frowned, and then quickly reached for a napkin. She wiped away the hot liquid that covered her chin and cast a vexed look at first Grell and then at Madam Red. "Something is not right with this tea," she declared. "It may just be me, but it tastes horribly _sour_."

"Sour?" Samantha inquired in surprise, but at that word a dark shadow fell over Madam Red's face, and beside her Grell blanched, feeling suddenly ill. As Clara responded to Samantha with an indignant "Horribly!", Madam Red turned to her butler with a glare. Both of them knew exactly what the problem was. As it happened, Clara was the only one of the three who had opted to add cream to her tea – cream that, as Madam Red had discovered the day before, had indeed gone bad. Grell was supposed to have seen about getting fresh cream that morning when he went out to the bakery, but evidently he had forgotten all about it.

"I-I'm so sorry!" the poor excuse for a butler began stuttering, though more to Clara or to Madam Red even he didn't know. He sprung toward the table and shakily took away Clara's teacup. His mind was racing. He was definitely going to be hearing about this one later on. "Please let me dispose of this for you."

"But what is the matter with it?" asked Samantha curiously. "Mine tastes just fine."

"It-it is possible that the cream may have – might have – gone bad," Grell finished in embarrassment. Madam Red couldn't help thinking that if he could only admit his mistakes and apologize in a dignified manner, like her nephew's butler would (though that one _never_ seemed to make an error), it might not be so bad. But unfortunately, Grell was the type of person whose first instinct was to get flustered, or if she was really unlucky, to completely panic.

He could be so _hopeless_. And his performance wasn't doing anything for her reputation, either.

Without really thinking about it Grell extended his arm and unceremoniously dumped the rancid substance inside the cup onto the lawn. Madam Red would have slapped her forehead at this action if she hadn't been in front of company. Grell was about to pour out some pure, untainted tea for Clara when he noticed her grimacing at the teacup, and he realized that she did not intend to use it again, not like this. "Excuse me, I'll be right back!" he exclaimed, much louder than he'd meant to, and turned around and fled toward the house. Halfway there he stopped, turned around and ran back, picked up the creamer with its spoiled contents and then sprinted off again.

There was an uneasy silence for a long moment after the kitchen door closed. Madam Red stared at the linen tablecloth, forcing herself to remain as calm as possible and preparing to look at her companions again. When she did look up, Samantha was gazing at her, countenance unreadable, while Clara was still staring at the house, overwhelmed. Madam Red took a breath. "I am so sorry, Clara," she said, her words echoing Grell's, and though much more calm, she was not any less sincere. She considered going on, saying "you know how he is", but decided against it.

Clara released a disgruntled sigh, and turned back to her. "How awful it must be for you," she replied in pity. Then she made a face. "And the taste of that cream is still in my mouth."

"I have to agree," Samantha put in. "I don't know how you can live like this every day, Anne. It remains a fact, I'm afraid: he is simply no good. At least, not as a servant." She paused. "Do you remember my maid, Sarah? Do you remember her eccentric ways and how air-headed she was? Well, though she wasn't as inept as your butler, you know that I had to release her from service eventually. My nerves have been so much better since then." She then leaned forward. "As a friend, my advice to you would be to let that man go, Anne. You deserve so much better, and believe me when I say the change will ease your mind."

"Yes, that is the only thing to do," Clara immediately voiced. "What other choice is there? None!"

Madam Red couldn't say she was surprised that they were making this suggestion. In all reality, it was a very logical one, despite the way the other women were far too eager to persuade her to take it. She had entertained the thought before, and on one or two occasions, had almost done it in a fit of anger. But she had always stopped herself, had somehow convinced herself that Grell _could_ improve, that he deserved another chance.

And then there was that other time. That morning when he had approached her minutes after cleaning up the shattered pieces of a glass that had managed to slip through his hands.

…

"_Madam," Grell started uneasily, and though his hands were behind his back, she was certain he was nervously twisting his fingers together. He then hesitated and took a deep breath. "If you are unhappy with my performance…as I can often assume you are…well…" At seeing her quirked eyebrow and inquisitive look as she sat in the parlor chair before him, he stopped and began again, and this time his words came out all in a rush. "If I'm only being a burden and you want me to leave, then I will! If it would make things easier and make you more comfortable, then just say the word!" He was now gesturing wildly with his hands, his voice rising slightly in pitch and the hysterics beginning to set in. "In fact, if that's not enough, I'll leave _and_ punish myself! I'll – I'll – oh, I don't know how I'll do it, but I'll find a way! Even if it costs me my life, because really, I'd rather die than –"_

_It was then that she cut him off by standing up abruptly and slapping her hand down over one of his, effectively stopping him from waving it about. "Calm down, _now_," she ordered sternly. Grell fell silent and shut his mouth, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. "Now listen well. I do _not_ intend to fire you. All I ask is that you continue to try your hardest. Is that clear?"_

_Grell stared at her, and then nodded quickly, having mostly calmed down. "…yes, my lady. I will. I mean – I understand," he managed to meekly respond. Satisfied that he was finished overreacting, Madam Red removed her hand, which she had firmly kept over his while speaking, and sat down in the chair again._

_And Grell, all at once looking bewildered and staring down at his own hand, promptly fainted._

…

Thinking back on it now, she realized that aside from the usual muted exasperation at Grell's outburst, she couldn't remember very well what her thought process at the time had been. Whatever it was, she had in essence told him that he wasn't going anywhere.

So how was she supposed to turn around and act like that had never happened?

Madam Red had always considered herself to be a tough and forward woman who did what had to be done, but this just felt different.

"Well…it is a thought, I suppose. I was hoping it wouldn't come to that," she finally said in reply to her companions.

"It is true that having to confront a servant in that situation is bothersome," Clara said, picking up her fork and starting on her cake. "Especially when the servant has the gall to get upset. But you shouldn't let that stop you."

"Absolutely not," Samantha agreed.

There was movement in the kitchen window again. Madam Red looked over to see Grell wiping the teacup he'd taken inside with a dishrag, and assumed he had just finished washing it out. There was a brief, anxious moment in which he almost dropped it, but then caught it at the last second. She looked away, and sitting up a tad straighter, stiffly reached for her own slice of cake.

Inside the kitchen, Grell sighed unhappily. He gave the dainty piece of china, so fragile in his ever-clumsy hands, a final look-over before heading back to the door. Hopefully, he had made all the mistakes he was going to make until the visitors left. There had come to be quite a difference between these humiliations happening in front of Madam Red only and in front of everyone else. No such situation could exactly be called a good one, but the more people there were around, the more demeaning it was.

Sometimes he still wondered for how many more years – months – weeks – he might be here.

When he came back outside and approached the table once more, he received only the most cursory of glances from the three, as they were now engaged in a rather crass conversation concerning someone's uppity and distasteful brother-in-law. Silently, Grell picked up the teapot and began pouring out the tea that he knew Clara had been impatiently waiting for. Dully, he watched the chamomile swirl about inside, until without warning an extremely fleeting but very loud humming sound invaded his right ear, fading out almost immediately but causing him to start. His head whipped to the side and he caught sight of the source of the scare: a bumblebee, yellow and black and furry, that was buzzing off toward some flowering shrubs and unnoticed by the others. Grell could still hear the ringing in his head as his eyes followed the insect to where it stopped and hovered over one of the small blossoms. He didn't mind bees so long as they kept their distance; there was just no reason for that one to have come so close…

"Grell!"

At Madam Red's shout, Grell snapped out of his wandering thoughts and hastily looked back. It scarcely took a heartbeat of seeing her alarmed stare before he glanced down at where she was looking. He gasped. He had no idea which of his hands had moved, but the stream of tea pouring from the spout was now missing its target and spilling down to the lawn, and to his dismay, the cup was already overflowing.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Grell cried, hurriedly righting the pot. Now he knew that averting his eyes from such a task for even a few moments was a very bad thing for a butler to do. "I don't know how I can ask for forgiveness, especially after what happened before! I know that I've been nothing but a disgrace!" he wailed, completely flustered and forgetting to put down the china he was still gripping. As he continued to lose it and rambled on, having reached the limits of his composure, Clara shot a meaningful look across the table at Madam Red.

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps there really was no other choice. This had gone on long enough. And before long no one would take her seriously anymore.

Even so, the thought of how the conversation would go, this being Grell and all, was a very unpleasant weight.

/

A few hours later, when her company had gone and the table in the yard had been cleared, Madam Red rounded on Grell as he exited the kitchen. "Listen, before you forget, you should probably go out and get some good cream now. I won't mind going without it when I have my tea this evening, but we will definitely need it by tomorrow. Go and get it now before it gets dark."

"Yes, Madam," Grell responded obediently, a trace of discomfort crossing his face as he was reminded of the afternoon's events. He took the money from her and went to get his cloak, Madam Red watching him go. Although it _was_ best to have Grell get the cream sooner rather than later, what she really wanted to do was buy herself some time alone to think about how she could bring up his potential…dismissal. A portion of her still didn't want to do it, knowing that this had to have been the best opportunity for employment Grell had ever had. Not to mention, she couldn't imagine him taking news such as this very well.

She would have to be unflinching. After all, if she didn't do it now, how much harder would it be to do it in the future? She had to do this to save her image, her respect, her sanity…

She wouldn't admit that part of her might miss him.

He was gone longer than expected. Madam Red had since gone upstairs to her study in a halfhearted effort to make arrangements to hire a new butler. It was only when she heard the front door close downstairs did she realize how much time had passed.

She couldn't make him go tonight, Madam Red thought as she stood up from her desk. He could remain here only until she found his replacement, which shouldn't take too long, a week perhaps. But it would be best to tell him now and prepare him. With a heavy sigh she left the room and began descending the stairs.

By the time she reached the bottom, Grell had already passed through the foyer and his footsteps could be heard echoing down the hallway. Walking through the first floor and into the kitchen, the first thing Madam Red saw was the tall glass bottle, full of fresh cream, sitting atop the nearest counter, but Grell was absent from the room. Hearing movement coming from the dining area, she turned and headed in that direction.

The sight that met her eyes was not one she would have necessarily expected. Grell had removed his cloak and draped it over the back of one of the dining chairs, and was now standing by the table placing a generous cluster of red flowers in a crystal vase that sometimes sat in the center. They were amaryllises, Madam Red recognized, a flower she had not seen for a long time. They were gorgeous and would have made a wonderful centerpiece, but she already had an ornament in the middle of the table, something she would assume that Grell would have remembered.

He looked up. "Forgive me, Madam," he began, a bit hesitantly. "I…made a stop on the way back."

"So I see," she replied, her eyes flitting from him to the vivid blooms and back again. "They're very nice, I'll admit, but whatever possessed you to get them?"

Grell paused, and blinked a few times. It was obvious that he hadn't even thought to prepare an explanation, and now he was at a loss as to what to say. Madam Red temporarily forgot what she had come downstairs to talk to him about as she watched him with curiosity and some amusement. Grell moved his hands in an uncertain gesture before finally saying, "I suppose I thought they might…just be something nice to look at…and because you have been so strained over matters for a few days now, when I passed the florist I thought it might be a good…idea." He stopped, looking as though he was trying to decide whether his deed was something that should be considered strange. He went to buy flowers for the house frequently (since the garden was mediocre at best), but only when asked to. Quickly, he added, "I realize that things could have gone better today during tea hour –" and here he faltered – "but since they didn't, this is probably the least I could do to help improve my lady's mood." Unable to find anything else to say, he went silent and awaited her response, hoping it wouldn't be unfavorable.

Something like this never having happened before, not from _Grell_ anyway, Madam Red had to take a moment before saying something, though her bewildered countenance gave much away. "That's quite…good of you. Very spontaneous and not something you had to do, but…considerate, I suppose." To seem more businesslike and less sentimental, she added, "I'm sure we would have needed more flowers for the house soon, anyway." Then, she paused. "You were gone for an awfully long time though, even for making a stop."

"Ah, well…I didn't really know what to choose at first," Grell feebly attempted to explain. "I looked around for a bit and then I thought something red might be best, since, you know, you're so fond of that color, but even that didn't narrow it down very much. So eventually…" He trailed off and waved a hand at the crystal vase, which glinted in the remaining daylight that streamed in through the windows. He didn't feel the need to mention that he had also spent a lot of time there just trying to satisfy himself with a red flower that he found to be pretty enough. Whenever Madam Red sent him out to buy these things, she always gave him an idea of what kind she wanted, but this time he had been on his own. The elegant amaryllises with their red bell-shaped blossoms stood tall and proud.

Nonetheless, the excuse he gave was not one that most masters and mistresses would have tolerated without some degree of annoyance. Madam Red, however, had learned to tolerate such things, and had also learned that things could have been much worse – she wouldn't put it past him to accidentally burn down the shop. For a moment she considered scolding him for what it might be worth, but in the end decided not to bother. It would just be better to graciously accept the gesture and let that be the end of it.

"I see. Well, that's all right. As I said, it was thoughtful of you to do. Thank you." This was said with the utmost casualness and indifference as she was capable of. She leaned forward to take a hold of the vase, intending to find a place to put it and then to finally move on to…other matters.

As she did so, she caught sight of Grell's face as he began beaming at her. "It is simply my duty to accommodate you in any way possible, my lady," he proclaimed. "…or at least, to attempt to," he added as an afterthought. "I'm just about positive I didn't fill it with too much water this time."

She glanced at him as she straightened back up, holding the vase in both hands while her senses were overcome by the flowers' light scent. He was still smiling at her, but she realized that it wasn't the normal smile he sometimes wore, the one that simply meant he was pleased with himself when something went right. He looked…like he was happy that she was happy, even if she wasn't expressing it all that much. As if she was some wonderful person whose approval meant so much, even though he rarely achieved it since nine times out of ten he managed to somehow botch things up.

She could feel her conviction beginning to crack…and then it shattered. She knew it now. She couldn't fire him. Not after seeing him look at her like that. Tomorrow she might regret her decision, but then again, she might not. Tomorrow was tomorrow. And though she knew she was bound to get upset with him countless more times, maybe Grell wasn't entirely worth kicking out. Madam Red was a person who usually chose not to believe in fate, but she was starting to suspect, just a little bit, that perhaps he had come to work for her for a reason.

"…it looks fine to me," she replied distantly, and absently checked the water level in the vase. "Why don't we put this somewhere else…like the parlor! That will do, since I don't believe there is anything on the end table next to the sofa at the moment. Come."

She led him out of the room and back through the hall, and they entered the tastefully-decorated but not overdone sitting-room. Madam Red placed the amaryllises on the aforementioned table and took a few steps back. She nodded in satisfaction. "That looks very good."

"Excellent choice, Madam," Grell replied from where he stood off to the side, somewhat taken by surprise that she had wanted to put away the flowers herself instead of sending him off to do it. It was odd, and he wasn't entirely sure what was going on. But she seemed to be appreciative. He hadn't _really _expected something so trivial to actually lift her spirits, not after the last rough few days she'd had and then the scene he'd caused today, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe it really had been a good idea.

Madam Red gave the pretty flowers one final look before turning at last to her careless, excitable, ungraceful, yet faithful butler. Yes, she decided, looking up at his subdued expression, Grell _was _here for a reason. That reason just wasn't clear to her yet.

As they left the sitting-room and began walking back down the hall, Grell, walking a few feet ahead of Madam Red, turned his head sideways to speak to her. "Uh, Madam," he started nervously, "please forgive me, but the money I used at the florist came from the money you gave me for the cream, which is why I have no change to give you." He went on hastily, as if afraid of being interrupted. "Please don't hesitate to take it out of my next pay!"

That was something she had already guessed, and she very nearly rolled her eyes, not wanting him to put up a fuss. "I'll do that. Don't worry about it."

"Oh, good," Grell said in relief, still looking over his shoulder. "Thank you, my lady. I – "

His words were cut short then, and he stumbled on a snag in the rug before pitching forward. He briefly flailed his arms about before using one hand to catch himself on the wall, but unfortunately, that part of the wall was occupied by one of the paintings owned by Madam Red, this particular one depicting a cozy-looking house in the middle of the countryside. Grell's hand smacked against the frame just a little too hard and sent the painting sliding off its hook and careening to the floor, where it landed facedown with a clatter. Grell managed to catch his balance but froze when he saw what he'd done.

He really should have been watching where he was going. Madam Red rubbed her temples, inwardly groaning in chagrin.

It could be a long time before that elusive reason revealed itself.

/

****Thank you for reading. However, I must say that in all reality, I'm kind of mad at myself** for being unable to come up with anything better for Grell to do than buy flowers, though I admit there was a part of me that was unwilling to let the idea go. The inspiration for that bit came from a picture I found on zerochan . net of Sebastian, Agni, and Grell in butler form, Grell holding a stack of dishes and a bunch of purple roses. However, I chose amaryllises for the story since I thought using any flower with romantic connotations would be taking things too far, too fast. Speaking of which, in florigraphy the amaryllis stands for "pride", something I thought about including and attributing to Madam Red, but then didn't. I was trying to keep the cheesiness to a minimum, really I was.**

**I kind of wish I could have found a moment to bring out a darker or a more slick side of Grell in this form, but there really was no place to put it. Also, I'm afraid I might not have given him enough freak-out moments. Oh well.**

**Review please! I like hearing anyone's opinion, either positive or negative.**


	2. A Better Person

**This is a short reflection-type thing that I came up with a while ago and eventually decided to post here. It's not all that much, but I like it how it turned out. Just remember, it's in the same vein that the story in the first chapter is in: that this is what it might be like if Grell in his human disguise was the real him. Sorry if Madam Red seems a little off in this one. Any and all comments or critique is welcome.**

**There may be more short stories being added here in the future, since I've been playing around with a few ideas.**

/

Many days, he did not feel worthy of being her butler.

He knew it as well as anyone else did, if not more so – that as far as his occupation was concerned, he was a hopeless failure, with no coordination nor ability to master the simplest skills. He made far more errors on a daily basis than would have been acceptable under any roof other than that of the particular lady he served. And she yelled at him, of course, and became frustrated with him so often that his guilt had long ago gone beyond all measure. How he wished, though always in vain, that just one day could go by perfectly, without any incident whatever, for both their sakes. For he knew that she was tired of continuously reprimanding him. Why wouldn't she just allow him to smother himself under the rug and be done with it?

But he had to admit, there was no nobleman or woman in the world that he would rather serve, not even the queen herself. In his eyes Madam Angelina, commonly and fondly known as Madam Red, _was_ a queen of the highest degree. Her talents, smarts, and stately demeanor commanded respect. She possessed a wonderful and unique sense of humor (albeit somewhat uncouth at times), and she was also quite attractive…quite beautiful, really, in her own bold and sensational way. It was only a shame that that lovely face was forced to frown at him so often, but of course that was no one's fault but his own.

And when she wanted to be, she could be kind. Although, this kindness was usually shown to him in a different form than it was to others. He kept waiting anxiously to finally be sent away, to be dismissed – fired – but it never seemed to happen, and he'd been here for so long already…and so, if she showed him any kindness, it was in allowing him to stay. Exactly why she did, he still wasn't sure. But he counted it as a blessing, for however long it may last.

He relished and cherished the rare times when he did in fact carry out a task properly and as a reward was able to see her pleased with him. His heart never failed to soar at the satisfied smile or simple word of praise she sent his way at these too few moments. But alas, his periods of success always seemed terribly short-lived. And he often worried now that all he did only served to turn her potentially happy moments into miserable ones.

He didn't deserve to serve such a good lady as she.

He swore he would somehow make it all up to her.

/

Many days, she did not feel worthy of being his mistress.

She couldn't recall exactly when this feeling had come over her, and at first all it had done was perplex her. Why be regretful over all the scoldings she must give him? After all, she disliked the idea of being lenient with any of his nonsense, of giving up in any way her right to proper service, as anyone of her standing would. It was unheard of. It went against the entire system.

And yet at times, she realized that tolerating it all was slowly becoming part of her nature – and this was, in all honesty, frightening. It made her secretly imagine that she could become a different person altogether, and made her wonder just how badly she would be disrespected by the world if she dismissed too many of the things he did wrong or failed to do at all. However, at the same time, it felt…oddly liberating to be less uptight. In some moments…it _almost_ felt all right.

But that sense always vanished when she was among company, and Grell would find a means to slip up in one way or another. When within range of the critical, disapproving eyes of her acquaintances, she felt more obligated than ever to berate him. And this, she finally recognized, was the source of her guilt. It wasn't that she shouldn't reprove him and tell him to learn from his mistakes; it was the way she went about it when in the presence of others. The glares tended to be more heated, her tone of voice colder, and her words sharper than usual. She was at last beginning to see that the extra exasperation she used against him at these times was not necessary, and was not, _could_ not be doing him any good.

She knew that truthfully, despite the ridiculous extent of his clumsiness, there were indeed a few likable things about him. For one thing, he possessed the most amazing singing voice, which no one would guess by just looking at him or hearing him speak, and which he apparently liked to show off when he had the opportunity. On another note, she truly appreciated that he always did what he could to cheer her up on her more somber days, because she knew that all his efforts to do so were sincere. He cared for her quite a bit, really; she knew that by now. And at all times he tried to show the utmost respect, though often it was preceded by an awkward stumble in movement or speech.

And unlike her, he didn't seem to deem the mass's impression of him to be of much importance. It was a good thing he wasn't a member of high society himself, she thought. He hardly even laughed along when she and her friends were mocking various other citizens, even when she pressed him to, among other things. But she…her resolute desire for a favorable reputation among the nobles of England was slowly but surely costing one flawed but devoted man his confidence. She was failing him in being an encouraging mistress. Rather, she was being quite the discouraging one.

She didn't deserve to be served by such a good man as he.

She swore she would somehow make it all up to him.


	3. Good Intonations

**Just thought I should mention here that the events in these one-shot chapters take place in no particular order. I just write in the order that ideas come to me. I'm saying this because chronologically, chapter two would probably come after this one, based on a detail I threw in there. Didn't want anyone confused.**

/

"Thank you, and have a good day, my lad," a certain bespectacled butler cheerfully told the newsboy as the adolescent handed the day's first piece of intelligence over to him. His gratitude was received with a brief nod before the boy turned and bounded down the stone steps, the worn cloth sack slung over his shoulder thumping heavily against his back. Grell took a few moments to watch him become immersed in the traffic on the street, until the green cap on the young one's head was lost from view amid the flow of carriages and pedestrians. Then he turned and strolled back into the grand townhouse, humming a tune and beginning to skim over the many bold headlines that shouted for attention.

What a fine morning it was turning out to be. The preparation and serving of the madam's breakfast had gone _fairly_ smoothly, the only real mistake having been that he'd forgotten to put silverware on the tray and had had to run back downstairs to retrieve some. After this, Madam had dressed and disappeared into her study to do some work-related research, as it happened that today she was not required to report in at the Royal Hospital. Grell had then made up her bed as neatly as he knew how and taken a short trip throughout the house, opening windows to allow in some air, before going off to occupy himself with cleaning. He had been very, very mindful of himself, chipping merely one plate and a glass while washing the breakfast dishes and only knocking over the bucket of water once while scrubbing the carpet of the sitting-room. And just now, the newspaper had been delivered.

After being bade entrance in response to his knock, he entered the study. Madam Angelina was seated behind the broad and burnished oak desk, her deep red eyes trained upon a thick medical text behind the slim glasses she wore for such purposes. Only when Grell had crossed the floor to stand opposite her did she straighten in her chair and look up at him.

"My lady," – here he dipped into one of his slightly awkward bows – "the _Morning Post_ has arrived." He placed the folded layers of newsprint on the side of the desk, in a spot unoccupied by any books or documents.

"Hmm…very well. Let us see which goings-on they have decided are noteworthy this time around." Inwardly grateful for the pause from her tasks, the elegant noblewoman clad in crimson drew the newspaper over toward herself and began examining the headlines and accompanying illustrations, an intense look of criticism coming over her features. Grell stepped back from the desk, and after remembering to quickly bow, turned and started to walk back toward the door. His thoughts were already restlessly wandering as he brooded over all the dreaded yard work he was set to do that afternoon; however, a rather loud and distraught cry of "Oh NO!" immediately caused him to spin around in alarm.

"What is the matter, my lady?" he inquired, surprised at the volume of her voice. He had witnessed her dramatic side emerge many times before while she was reading the paper – or exasperating mail in general – but it wasn't often that she sounded this upset.

"I can't believe this!" Madam Red cried, her face screwing up in frustration. "How could this happen? Ohhh…" She released a dejected sigh before finally facing her curious servant, who had hurried back across the room to her. "The show has been canceled. Webb's show, tonight!"

Alexander Webb was one of Madam Red's most-admired showmen, both an actor and a vocalist who occasionally composed his own material. Whenever a performance he had a role in was held, she never failed to attend, whether it be an operetta or his own shorter solo act. Tonight had been the date for the latter type of event, the announcement having been well-publicized and received with profuse excitement many, many weeks ago here in London. But evidently, something had occurred.

"What! Whatever for?" Grell cried with wide eyes, now sharing her distress. Admittedly, he was an enthusiast of the theatre himself, musical or otherwise. One great thing he found about being in this profession was that he was not only permitted, but _required_ to attend the performances whenever the madam wished to go. He always seemed to find himself applauding longer and harder than most of the other audience members, much to Madam Red's impatience.

"It says here that one of his family members passed on yesterday, and he's going back home to Oxford to mourn." Madam Red tapped a finger against the typewritten words in front of her and sighed woefully once more. "I suppose no one is to blame…it's understandable. But how disappointing…"

"Indeed…" Grell had to concur. He imagined that she and himself weren't the only ones in the vicinity of London who were let down. "This is truly disheartening news," he said with a sorry face. "You've been looking forward to tonight for so long!…and there's that gorgeous new dress you purchased for the occasion…with the hat to match…" At this reminder Madam Red only appeared even more glum. "Truly, I am so sorry, my lady," Grell said in sympathy. "Is there any mention at all of the event being rescheduled?"

"There will be nothing until further notice," she answered, after quickly reading the last statements of the notice.

"I-I see. Of course," Grell replied carefully. "Let us hope he will be back in London at some point."

"Well, I'd rather not dwell on it too long," Madam Red responded with a dismissive shrug, and proceeded to fold over the current sheet of newspaper to view the next one. "I only wish I knew what it is I'm now supposed to do this evening," she muttered over the rustling of the pages.

Grell nodded slightly, watching her brisk movements. "Indeed…" he slowly spoke, it again being the first word to come to his mind. "But don't worry, madam," he continued hastily. "I'm sure there will be some way for you to spend the time. In the meantime…ah…" he glanced around the room, helplessly trying to think of what would now be appropriate to say. "…would you…like some tea?" he finished at last. It was an extremely feeble suggestion, but it was all he was able to put out on the spot.

She shook her head absently, eyes running over the newfound article now before her. "No…that's all right."

/

The remainder of the day passed peacefully – or, as peacefully as the average day was capable of passing at Madam Red's residence. Once her medical-related business was complete, and once Grell had finished creating and then cleaning up a mess in the flowerbeds outside, she had him drive her into the heart of the city to do some shopping. As he obediently followed her into and through the countless shops, his straining arms weighed down with boxes and bags of all sizes, Grell observed his mistress attempt to cheer herself up and disregard her disappointment. But judging by her halfhearted perusing and the overall lack of her ordinary vigor, her efforts weren't proving to be all that fruitful. As was his tendency, he exclaimed over many articles of clothing he noticed her glance at, telling her how very stunning she would be sure to look in them – but this was not to very much avail in enlivening her, either.

He was sure that her unhappy mood would wear off fairly soon, but in the meantime Grell couldn't really think of any more words to offer in regard to the matter, and resolved to let it alone. However, another thought, a small, flighty one that occurred to him in a moment of fancy, was now brewing steadily within his brain.

He knew the idea could be considered a foolish one, but he was more wont to think that it was a good one. After all, he was familiar with most if not all of Webb's work. After all, he knew which song was his lady's favorite. After all, he _had_ been the best in the entire choir in the orphanage he'd grown up in…

If there was a chance it may lift her spirits, even just a little, then he decided he should go ahead and take it. What was the harm? If it didn't succeed, then she'd just roll her eyes and scold him…and hopefully nothing more. Unless, of course, he failed so miserably that it would be necessary to strangle himself in shame, and deliver her from ever having to hear his voice again…

He found her at the small library within the drawing room that evening, after dinner was over and the dishes had been cleaned and put away in his traditional accident-prone manner. Illuminated by the warm glow cast by the gas lamps, Madam Red sat on a small velvet sofa with her legs crossed, concentrated on a fictional drama chosen at random from one of the shelves. The butler stopped in the entryway and stood poking his head inside past the door. "Excuse me, my lady?" he spoke just a bit hesitantly, hoping she would be willing to hear him out.

She looked up from the pages. "Yes, what is it?" Her tone plainly gave away her bored state. But Grell, whose confidence was now starting to rise back up again, was certain he could take care of that.

He bowed, and, adjusting his glasses as he rose, said, "If you would be so kind as to allow me a few minutes of your time, Madam…there is a question I would like to ask." He smiled pleasantly.

Her curiosity aroused, Madam Red sat up straighter and looked at him questioningly. "Oh? What's that?"

"Well, you see…it pertains to Mr. Webb," Grell replied with discretion, fully aware that he was abandoning his personal pledge not to bring up that name again. He went on rapidly. "You are very fond of his "In the Land of Mist", correct?"

She nodded, perplexed as to where he was taking the subject.

Seeing this, his next question was instantaneous. "Would you like to hear it?" he eagerly asked, leaning forward a few inches with bright olive eyes full of anticipation.

It was then that an unexpected hush crept in and settled between them, and for several moments Madam Red simply stared in bewilderment at her lively butler. Just _what_ was going on inside his head? He had never seemed the type to purposely rub salt in anyone's wounds (rather, it was he who was usually the object of mockery), but if she didn't know better, she would say that he was now doing just that. To the individual he served, no less. And what was more, he didn't even seem to be aware he was doing it…unless he was exercising some well-practiced acting skills. But what were the chances of that?

Her befuddlement quickly evaporated and she cast him a flat, unamused look, effectively snuffing out the light in Grell's eyes and causing his heart to sink within him.

"I would think you would be able to guess the answer to that," Madam Red replied, her words tinged with annoyance. As if Grell didn't already know how much she would have liked to be in that theater hearing it right now. Intentional or not, what he was displaying was nothing short of disrespect. A vexed expression crossed her face. "Of course I would like that!" she exclaimed.

At this, the light immediately shone again in Grell's eyes as he beamed, much to the puzzlement of his mistress, who had been expecting him to cringe upon realizing that he wasn't helping her any. In any case, she really wasn't in the mood for fooling around. He needed to get to the point, whatever it might be.

"Oh, thank you!" he squealed, clearly thrilled. "You are indeed much, much too kind. Very well." He promptly folded his hands before him and stood perfectly straight, an aura of focus yet contentment distinctly overcoming him. Watching him, Madam Red was at a total loss as to what was going on.

Until she noticed him quietly and deeply inhale –

– and it was then that an all-too-sudden wave, comprised of both shock and disbelief at this clever little scheme of his, flooded over her.

She had misunderstood his question.

He _opened his mouth_, and suddenly it was too late to shout out and stop him, to save him from the unnecessary humiliation and to save herself from something she could definitely do without hearing. She was already wincing and leaning back on the sofa as his voice penetrated the air…

…but after the first few notes of the melody she so cherished had sounded, the pained look was abruptly wiped from her face and the imagined agony instantly vanquished from her mind – vanquished by another kind of shock and disbelief, which crashed down upon her with even greater force.

This voice…was far from what she had expected. It was very…different, very un-Grell-like. It was lower, it was richer, it was…magnificent. Not only that, but the more she heard, the more she realized that he was _good_. His voice rode nearly effortlessly on the air, and he seemed to be breathing properly and in all the right places. It appeared that he was monitoring his volume in accordance with the size of the room and the distance between them, but even so, it was evident that he was capable of going much louder. Through her sheer amazement, Madam Red managed to perceive by the expression he wore that he was enjoying himself very much. And every now and then, his eyes would seek out hers, and he would only seem even more pleased.

She really couldn't understand how the human voice was able to change its tone and quality so drastically, but she wasn't about to mull over it right now. She was too occupied with simply listening and gaping dumbstruck at this wonder…a wonder she wouldn't have believed possible from the normally unassuming man whom she thought she knew.

It dawned on her that perhaps she didn't know much about him after all.

Once the song had come to its conclusion and Grell had gracefully (_gracefully!_) allowed the final notes to fade away, Madam Red found herself still sitting stupefied, the flabbergasted look adorning her face anything but dignified. Unmoving, she watched him take a sweeping bow, as he was apparently caught up in the moment. He rose again, and his eager yet nervous smile gradually melted into a frown of concern. "My lady?" he inquired cautiously, his uncertain voice having once again reverted to its rightful range. She merely blinked at him dazedly, seemingly unable to speak. Grell wrung his hands in anxiety. _Oh dear…what have I done now? I was only trying to –_

"Grell…" she uttered slowly, interrupting the silence. It had taken some time, but her breath was now recovered after having made its escape. "What in the world was that?" she cried out without warning, making him jump. "I never knew you could sing!"

"Oh…well, uh…" He scrambled to account for this fact. "…I suppose I never did mention it…there was never occasion to…"

"And you felt that tonight there was occasion to?"

He visibly faltered. "I'm sorry…"

"No, no! Don't be! Good grief, Grell, don't apologize for something like _this_! That was amazing! Sit down and tell me where you learned to sing so well!" She placed her book, which had been lying on her lap throughout the performance, onto an adjacent end table and then gestured excitedly to the empty space beside her on the sofa. The apprehensive butler, swiftly comprehending that everything had indeed turned out for the best as he had hoped – that she had in fact enjoyed and appreciated what she'd heard – could not have been more elated. "I'm so glad it was to your liking," he blurted out, flushing and grinning, and sat down.

It was soon explained to Madam Red that although he had never undergone individual training of any kind, Grell had always possessed a penchant for song. He had been recognized for it among his peers and caretakers when younger, but once he had been released out into the world to be on his own, it had been pushed into a far corner of his mind, as it had held no place whatever among his priorities. But now he admitted to occasionally singing to himself when alone, which was how he knew he hadn't gone rusty.

In all honesty, it all made Madam Red more than a little shamed – shamed to think she had been convinced that he was not only inept in his occupation, but talentless. Clearly, she could not have been more wrong. But why had he never tried to make something of himself using this as his tool, to fashion a career and a life for himself in show business? Surely he'd have much better success doing that than anything he was doing _here_.

The currently undiscovered _primo uomo _sitting beside her appeared able to see through her thoughts just then. "I'm really not _that_ wonderful, not enough to be someone like Webb," said Grell, shaking his head slightly and trying his best to think modestly. "At times I think it must make an interesting career, but…well, I just don't know…"

"You'll _never_ know unless you try!" she protested. "And it is a lie to say that your voice is lacking at all!"

He couldn't prevent a runaway smile from slipping out, and even puffed up a bit at the so-rarely-heard praise. However, the smile then became dry. "Well, whatever your opinion, madam – ah, with all due respect, of course – for me to ever go that far simply feels so impossible…I have never dared to dream that any of it could actually amount to something. I've never even had training, after all…and besides…" And then he was off, prattling away and gesturing animatedly as he started to list the great many number of reasons for why he wasn't fit for fame and fortune. It didn't take long for Madam Red to suspect that in reality, they were all nothing more than excuses, and she considered the quite plausible possibility that he just didn't have the courage to take on that lifestyle. Or…

She raised a hand to cut him off. Upon noticing, the butler quickly ceased his drivel and dropped his hands back down, adopting a subdued and somewhat embarrassed look. "Grell…?" she began, pursing her lips in contemplation.

"Ah…" He uncertainly tightened his fists where they rested in his lap. "Y-Yes?"

She stared at him for several heartbeats, doggedly trying to search him while he blinked back at her…and all at once the question seemed unnecessary.

Or…_maybe he just likes it here_.

Grell cleared his throat, seeing that she had begun to ponder to herself without finishing her thought. "Excuse me, my lady…what is it that you wanted to say?" he tentatively asked.

"…oh yes, pardon me." Madam Red hurriedly pulled herself away from her musings, and in the next moment a notion that she'd had earlier caught up with her. "…I was just thinking that hearing a song without even leaving home would be a fine remedy for a bout of gloom," she said slowly, and then smiled at him primly. "You wouldn't mind helping me out once in a while, would you, Grell? You know, whenever I'm not feeling my best…and perhaps even when we need to entertain guests. Am I safe in assuming this is something you like to do?"

"Oh, yes!" the normally meek butler quickly piped up in enthusiasm. "Yes! I do, and I'd be honored if I could use it to help my lady in any way." He could not deny how good he felt, now that his old talent was again known and lauded by someone. More importantly, he felt so much lighter knowing that he had done something right, and without even much effort, at that. At least there did exist _something_, however out of the ordinary and insignificant, that he could rely on to win her favor.

He would hate to leave this place, he thought, however bad some days could be.

The next thing he knew, she was begging him to sing another.

And what could he do but oblige?

/

_**Primo uomo**_**: Italian for "first man", and the principal male singer in opera; the male equivalent of a prima donna.**

**Yeah, I made Grell an orphan. It is a little depressing, but the idea just sort of clicked with me. I tried imagining him with parents (if we do pretend that he's human and all), but it was really hard. I have a hard time imagining what he'd have looked like as a kid, too…**

**By the way, I totally made up "Alexander Webb" and his song.**


	4. To Heal Wounded Pride

Never again, he told himself. Never, ever again would he do something so utterly careless, so utterly mindless, so utterly idiotic. So _stupid_. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Never again. Over and over Grell inwardly and harshly repeated these words to himself.

He was standing in the spacious kitchen, trying as best he knew how to stop the flow of blood that leaked from the long, frightful cut on the palm of his right hand. Nearby, inside the scullery just off the kitchen, three jagged pieces of what was formerly a porcelain saucer mocked him from their spot on the floor, particularly the fragment with the bit of bright red coating its sharp, spiteful edge. And over on the small table by the scullery door lay his discarded gloves, right where he always put them when he had dishes to wash.

He supposed it was just as possible for him to hurt himself on the broken shards of china even if he _had_ actually decided to take the five extra steps and put the gloves back on, but at least it wouldn't have stung as much. Anyway, he sullenly thought, who else but him would attempt to handle such dangerous objects with bare hands when there were in fact gloves readily available?

Stupid, lazy…and stupid again.

Exhaling deeply, the less-than-perfect butler struggled to wrap the half-bloodied handkerchief around his hand, which proved to be quite the feat when only one hand was free to do the wrapping. More blood was smeared as the wound steadily continued to ooze, making the chore even harder. He was in the middle of vainly trying to tie the ends into some semblance of a knot when the door opened, and Madam Red appeared in the kitchen.

She had been passing by the room, and had decided to check in on him upon hearing his weary sigh. Now, after glancing at the hazardous clutter on the floor and then surveying Grell hopelessly fighting with the handkerchief, she released a sigh of her own and shook her head in what might have been pity. "You're doing it incorrectly."

Finally surrendering in the battle he was plainly losing, Grell turned his eyes away from her, shamefaced, choosing to view the wall instead. "Somehow it's much harder than I thought it would be," he confessed in a mumble. "Oh!" Suddenly tense, he looked back at her hastily. "And please be so kind as to forgive me for the mess…I fully intend on getting r-rid of it just as soon as I fix myself up." He pressed the stained handkerchief down more firmly onto his palm and shifted his hand, attempting to hide the extent of the injury from her.

But it was too late. Madam Red walked over to him, obviously exasperated. "I think it would do you better if you let me fix you up," she replied, and pried his good hand off and out of the way in order to more closely examine the damage on the other. "It doesn't look like you've even cleaned this properly." She made a face of disdain.

"I…" He had nothing to say.

She moved her hands away and allowed him to cover the wound again. As she made her way back to the door, she turned to regard him over her shoulder. "Rinse that off and then re-apply the pressure," came the instructions. "Wait for me here. I'll be right back with bandages." The door shut behind her, and she was gone.

He was inconveniencing her yet again, robbing her of time that she could be spending on more important, more significant things. Thoroughly disgusted at himself, Grell went to do as he'd been bid.

Ten minutes later, the both of them were standing back at the same counter, the lady of the house skillfully winding a long snow-white bandage around her butler's hand while Grell watched dully. "You're quite lucky, you know," Madam Red remarked. "Not everyone has had the training to know how to do this the proper way."

"Yes, of course," Grell automatically replied, voice apathetic, and then was silent again, having no real desire to speak. He hated this. He felt like nothing more than a child right now…like someone to be looked after. It was all so degrading…although, a small part of him wanted to argue back and point out that perhaps this was Madam Red's instinct, to assist those who were physically hurt or ill. That did make some sense. But he still fervently wished that he could be somewhere else right now, and not the object of such attention.

It was then that he heard her next words. "I don't really understand why you didn't think to get the broom," she murmured, without taking her eyes from her work.

Grell instantly wanted to slap himself. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of that either. But then, it was evident that he hadn't been thinking much at all. He hung his head.

Noticing this, Madam Red might have laughed a bit in amusement at his forgetfulness…if only it wasn't such a recurring problem. She took the small scissors and cut the bandage, removing the strip left over. "Cheer up," she spoke, business-like. "We're almost finished here." Grell raised his head to look, and in moments the job was done.

He couldn't help but admire the neatness of her work, and had to admit that she was right – it was good to have someone with such expertise around. He flexed his fingers, trying not to bend his tender hand too much. "Thank you very much, my lady," he said as gratefully as he was able, managing a half-smile and forcing himself to meet her eyes.

"Of course," she responded, gathering up what remained of her supplies. "We wouldn't have wanted blood everywhere, or an infection, now would we?"

Grell sighed. "No."

The lady took a moment to observe him, and then frowned. "Don't be so depressed. Just remember to use the broom next time. Please, please make an effort to remember."

"I know. I will," he replied, still unhappy, and nodded once.

"Well then, is there anything else I can address here before I go?" Madam Red asked, preparing to leave and let him sweep up the litter on the floor. At least, she tried to reassure herself, it wasn't one of her _favorite_ pieces of china.

That did it. "This is all wrong!" Grell cried out suddenly, unable to help himself. He threw his hands into the air, all at once animated again, the emotion returning to his face. "I should be coming to _your_ aid and taking care of _you_, not the other way around!" he raved. "It's unheard of! Ridiculous! It just – isn't – _right_," he finished in defeat.

Startled, Madam Red could only stare at him, not having expected the outburst. He was frustrated, and who wouldn't be? They both had every right to feel that way. But as much as she hesitated to admit it, a part of her did feel somewhat sorry for him.

She stepped forward and, reaching over, squeezed his shoulder, smiling ever so slightly. Grell looked at her in surprise.

"I know. But you try."

/

**This one just sort of happened without me even planning it…**

**Hope you liked slightly-more-serious Grell.**


	5. Just Call Him Servant

It may not have been a thought that tended to cross the minds of most people who acknowledged him, but the occupation of one Grell Sutcliffe often ran him into the ground. No, this did not refer to the multiple times he had tripped over nothing and crashed earthward, or to the unfortunate instance in which he had, utterly humiliatingly, fallen down the front staircase. This referred to the fact that as the sole servant of the house, he was forced to play the role of not only butler, but also of maid, gardener, footman, coachman, and (more rarely) cook. (Once in a while he would think, with much discomfort and shuddering, that if Madam Red had had any children, he would have been appointed nanny on top of everything else.) It could be quite difficult to accomplish every last chore on his list of responsibilities, and in all truth, it usually also depended on how good – or in other words, how mishap-free – of a day he was having.

He had come to realize that he wasn't exclusively a _butler_ at all, but half of the time a _valet _who just happened to hold an assortment of additional miscategorized jobs, and who was therefore much overburdened. After all, if he was a true butler, where were the servants one would expect to see him managing? Could it be that in giving him that title, his honorable mistress desired people to think that she had a larger household than in fact she did…?

Not to mention, if he was a butler, then where oh where was the tailcoat?!

…but concerning the former question, her reasons for doing things were no business of his, and he knew it. Nevertheless, Grell still wished he knew why she hadn't hired more staff members, and frequently wondered if she ever would. It wasn't uncommon, at the end of long and wearisome days, for him to gratefully sink into the haven that was his bed.

And today certainly qualified as a wearisome day.

"Grell, you look awfully tired," Madam Red frowned from the upholstered, burgundy-hued chair in which she sat. Indeed, the so-called butler had spent much energy today, not without incident washing a number of walls on the first floor of the house, running errand after errand, and hanging new curtains in addition to the usual everyday tasks. It was now early evening, and he was standing across the drawing room from the busily embroidering noblewoman, one hand lightly resting on the back of a chair in an effort to hold himself upright, wearing a listless expression, and overall seeming ready to collapse. It hadn't escaped the keen Madam Angelina that he'd also been carrying himself about rather heavily during the last several hours.

Grell shook his head, though without much vim. "Please don't mind me. I am all right," he assured, halfheartedly attempting to smile brightly and not to sound as drained as he appeared.

Madam Red abruptly lowered her needlework. After surveying him sharply for a few moments more, while Grell tried with all his might to appear as attentive as possible, she resumed what she was doing, re-focusing her eyes on the white square of cloth. "Go to bed, Grell."

He was quite perceptibly taken aback. "W-what?"

"Go to bed," she repeated, clearly not fooled by his efforts. "It's obvious that you won't be able to function in the state that you're in. There is no need to fuss over the house – I will turn off the lights and do whatever else is necessary later when I retire."

Grell's mouth fell open. The lady of the house, turn off _all_ the lights?!

Fuss is precisely what he then proceeded to do. Desperately – dramatically – he attempted to protest, ardently maintaining that he still had enough energy to see the rest of the evening through, and claiming that he would sooner throw himself in front of an oncoming carriage than shun his obligations. But she would not hear any of it, and after reiterating her statement once again, simply pointed in the direction of the stairs, and he knew he couldn't win. He could not deny that he wanted badly to rest, but his duties took precedence over that, and any servant who thought otherwise was a disgrace who deserved to be devoured by vermin from the most vile of sewers. But if his employer insisted on it, what else was he to do?

…it was an easy order, at least.

Having trudged his way up to the servants' quarters on the third floor of the house, Grell finally entered his small and undistinguished bedroom. The walls were covered by a bleak tan wallpaper, vacant of any object for the eye to behold, unless one counted the cobwebs here and there that Grell could never seem to permanently clear away. The furniture was composed of some relatively cheap wood and couldn't have been more unremarkable in design, and the single window, which faced the rear yard, had a habit of getting stuck in its frame when being opened or closed. But at the moment, there was no place anywhere that Grell would have rather been. He removed his frock-coat and shoes, and cast a glance over at the standard, green-quilted bed. How soothingly, how invitingly it was calling out to him…

Madam Red climbed the last step and alighted on the third floor, a place she didn't often have reason to venture, and which would have seemed non-existent if Grell didn't reside here. Walking down the short hallway in the dimness, she saw that his door was still open an inch, the lamplight from inside falling in a thin streak out onto the hall floor. Stopping a few feet away from the room's entrance, she called, "Grell, I forgot to take the keys from you to lock up the house later. Please bring them out."

She paused and waited for an acknowledgment of her request, but it did not come, and in place of a startled voice or the sound of him shuffling about, all that met her ears was a profound and almost eerie silence. It was befuddling, to say the very least. And as the seconds continued to tick by, she found that she was quickly becoming discontent with simply standing there in the half-darkness.

She had no other choice. After all, it was entirely unacceptable to leave the house unsecure. With that perfectly reasonable thought in mind, she crossed the short distance between herself and the door and dared to peek inside.

The glimpse she caught of him in the burning gaslight made Madam Red open the door farther, the hinges creaking just slightly, and the sight before her in its entirety caused her to sigh softly in amused exasperation. Really, he could have at least mustered up the strength to change his clothes…or for pity's sake remove his glasses, through which one could now see closed eyelids.

Of course, he had already fallen irretrievably into a sound sleep.

/

**I need to write some longer chapters again. The problem is that I've sort of had a lack of inspiration lately. I will come up with something lengthier and more plot-filled soon, I promise. Or perhaps a series of very short scenes compressed into one chapter.**

**Somehow it's hard for me to imagine Madam Red sewing or embroidering…but I wanted her to do something different than read another book or newspaper.**

**I had to do some research on the roles of various servants for this one.**


	6. A Bit of Blue Sky

If there was any useful lesson that Madam Red had learned since taking the man named Grell Sutcliffe into her service, it was this: there was always something to be grateful for, even in the most adverse of situations. There was always some brighter outlook to be found, some comfort only visible through rose-colored glasses, that would have remained obscure or undetectable to her if he had never come. There was always, potentially, a more precious item he could have broken, a more important guest he could have humiliated her in front of, a bigger or more expensive dish he could have rendered inedible. It was much better to focus on the circumstances that _weren't_ rather than those that _were._ If she had not developed this strategy, Madam Red was convinced that she would have become a patient in a very different sort of facility than that in which she worked, long ago.

In this case however, the circumstances were not under the butler's control anyway – well, not completely. It was true that he was far from being the ideal carriage-driver or navigator, but on the other hand, no one could have foreseen the situation before them now. And again, she was able to successfully pinpoint the reasons to be thankful. For one, at least it wasn't cold. If it had been, she and her worthy friends wouldn't have fancied meeting in the park for tea and socialization in the first place. And for another, at least the wind wasn't fierce enough to blow this gloomy rain into the charming little gazebo which they had eaten in and which currently sheltered her. At least she was dry, and it was not yet _very_ late…at least everyone else was long gone, so they wouldn't witness Grell slip and fall on the wet ground whenever in the name of decency he got here…

If she found herself stepping out into so much water that the hem of her dress got ruined, then God help him, she was going to kill him.

Restlessly, she waited, standing in the center of the small and slightly creaky pavilion. The rain fell without intermission, its momentum having accelerated considerably since it began. Now and again faint rumblings sounded in the heavens. Becoming increasingly unhappy with her present state, Madam Red strained her eyes past the expanse of the park to the street beyond, at the various blurry vehicles that rattled swiftly along. This weather was merely one more factor to make Grell's journey here a trying one.

At last, a carriage broke away from the flow of traffic and rolled to a halt at the edge of the park. A familiar figure, umbrella in hand, scrambled down from the driver's bench and proceeded to tie the horse to the hitching post at the gate. This complete, he turned around, and even at this distance she could see him trying to wipe the rainwater from his glasses' lenses as he scanned the park. And when he spotted her, he did the very thing she had hoped he wouldn't – he began to run.

He managed to clear about half of the initial distance between them before his feet rather comically flew out from under him and his backside slammed to the ground. It was a wonder he was able to keep hold of the umbrella.

_So inevitable_.

Grell picked himself up as fast as he could, and after quickly glancing down over his shoulder at his backside and cringing, walked – not ran – the rest of the way to the gazebo at a much more heedful pace, where he stopped at the foot of the three short steps leading into the relatively dry interior. His expression was one filled with pain, but evidently not from his fall. "I am so TERRIBLY and UNSPEAKABLY sorry, my lady!" he cried without hesitation. "I did not wish to trouble you by being late like this! I humbly beg you, please, find it in your heart to forgive me!" As he woefully beseeched her, he trembled, reminding one of a mouse before a snake that might bite at any moment.

"Yes, yes, very well," she replied dismissively, not particularly in the mood to hear his pleas for forgiveness.

"But if you don't, that's perfectly all right; I will simply go to London Bridge and – oh! Oh, my deepest thanks go out to you, madam! How forgiving you are toward someone as undeserving as I!"

"Enough."

"Ah…yes, of course." He paused, clutching the handle of the umbrella tightly, making his best effort to pull himself together. "…well then!" He extended a damply-gloved hand up to her. "Shall we go?" Strands of dark hair were plastered to his face, the red ribbon drooping.

Madam Red was so impatient to be off that she was ready to snatch the umbrella from him and march across the park on her own, but she restrained herself. Instead, arms crossed, she asked, "Grell…how were you able to drive and hold an umbrella over yourself at the same time?" It was plain to see that he had so very wisely left the house without his hat.

"Oh…well…not very well," Grell admitted with a lame smile.

"I see." That did help to explain part of his saturated state, and she had just witnessed firsthand how the rest of it had come about. She slipped her hand into his and carefully descended the steps. As they turned slightly, she caught sight of the back of his cloak, soaked through and decorated with streaks of mud.

She held up her skirts as they commenced the walk, Grell standing away while holding the umbrella over her head. The downpour had not let up at all, as the heavy patterings above her attested to, and when Madam Red looked over at her butler, he was ardently wiping away at his glasses with his free hand, all the while being further assailed by the rain.

It would have been a cruel thing to let continue. If Grell had not looked so utterly pitiful right then, or if this had been, perhaps, a very light drizzle, then it was likely she wouldn't have thought very much of it. But he did, and it wasn't.

Did the standards of decorum even allow it?...but no one was nearby, so who cared?

"Grell, please, get under the umbrella."

He looked at her abruptly, appearing surprised to the point of shock. "What?! Oh no, that wouldn't – "

"You look positively pathetic out there," Madam Red interrupted. She lifted a hand toward his forearm, fully intending to seize him and yank him under, if only to silence her nagging conscience.

Just as her fingertips made contact, however, a powerful gust of wind oppressed them, sweeping across the park. Madam Red hastily moved to keep her hat against her head while at the same time attempting to hold in place the fluttering skirts of her dress. How wonderfully convenient it was, the timing of this mighty blast! As this sour thought passed through her head, she noticed that raindrops were blowing into her face. It seemed that the umbrella was no longer held aloft, having been pulled down by the wind. Grell, bracing himself as firmly as he could against the slick ground, strained to make it face forward and shield them from the bombardment of watery bullets, but in vain: the umbrella was forced in the opposite direction and flipped inside-out with a rebellious _snap_. Grell struggled to maintain his grip on the object which threatened to bolt from his slippery hands.

Seconds later, it was over. Madam Red lowered her hand from her hat, and she and Grell rapidly inspected their former screen against the rain. It was definitely broken.

"Um…my lady…"

"No. Never mind it, Grell. Just get me into that carriage. In fact, here's an even better idea. To save us both the misfortune of you being struck by lightning next, we both will go in and wait out this rain." She turned and stormed toward the carriage, the newest victim to the shower's relentless descent. He was only just able to hear her mutter of, "Should have just stayed put under the roof."

Well, at least this time, the circumstances were not in his control, Grell thought. There was always _something_ to be grateful for, wasn't there?

/

**I was working on a big and awesome idea I had for this story (or collection of stories, really), but it seems to have flopped, mainly because I did not do adequate research on the subject before I started writing it. So to alleviate some of that depression, I wrote this, an idea that's been floating around in my mind for a while now and would have ended up being written eventually anyway. Hope you liked it. I had fun with it.**


	7. What Fate Christens You

If he was made to choose the one household chore that posed the least amount of intimidation, and which possessed the absolute slimmest chance of being bungled in any way, then this positively _must_ be it, Grell idly concluded to himself. He raised the petite dessert fork up to eye level, where it readily caught the spring sunlight bursting in through the dining room window. Exceedingly pleased by its dazzling (and nearly blinding) shine, he placed it onto the table, lining it up neatly alongside the other brilliant, newly-polished pieces of flatware. As long as he was mindful not to spill any polish (which, it must be confessed, had indeed occurred before), there was almost certainly nothing that could go wrong. It shouldn't even be worth counting the spilling of the polish, he attempted to persuade himself, because in the end the silverware always came out all right.

The well-meaning young butler, finding himself in those high spirits which so rarely decided to drop by and visit, unwittingly began to hum an airy tune as he turned back to the open drawer of the sideboard. After allowing his fingers to perform a short mid-air dance over the utensils yet to be rubbed to gleaming perfection, he selected a sugar spoon, an exquisite little thing with its scalloped basin, and prepared to once again deposit a small amount of polish onto the rag.

His hand had not even reached the bottle before the sound of brisk footsteps was heard out on the hardwood floor of the hall, and Madam Red, as stately (yet ravishing) as ever, promptly appeared in the entryway of the dining room. As she advanced inside, however, Grell could see that her features betrayed a considerable degree of disgust. Immediately he stiffened, mind racing, any traces of his former good mood evaporating. _Oh dear, what could it be, whatever could I have done…?!_

"I'm so dreadfully sorry, truly I am!" he blurted out, hastily and loudly, the words pityingly automatic.

The madam, standing opposite the table from him now, frowned slightly. "What? Why?" Her brow then creased further. "What is it that's happened now?" came the demand they had both become so painfully familiar with.

"Ah…oh, er…I just, that is, assumed…" Grell started slowly, eyes now clouded over with confusion, unsure if embarrassment was necessary any more. It was, after all, a wholly reasonable presumption.

Madam Red scrutinized him in suspicion for a few seconds longer; then, releasing him from her keen gaze she shook her head, sighing. "You misunderstand me. You've done nothing wrong that I know of at the moment. I merely wanted to share some interesting information with you. No – some _confounding_ information." She held up a folded piece of paper which Grell had until now failed to notice she'd brought with her. A letter? he guessed, at relatively greater ease now upon knowing that her apparent displeasure was not, in fact, directed at him. Letters, however, especially from the madam's friends, oftentimes meant that some shred of gossip was making its way throughout the social circles, and Grell was no stranger to being caught up on the latest news whenever his lady could not wait to recount it to someone. Truthfully however, he couldn't say that all of it was without fascination…who, after all, could resist hearing the details of the many (supposed) affairs and backstabbings that took place in this city?!

"Confounding, my lady?"

"That's right, and nothing less." Ah yes, that tone of voice she possessed indicated that his suspicions were confirmed. Grell tried not to appear too intrigued as Madam Red grimly continued.

"You remember my friend Annabel, do you not? Well, it seems that last week she finally gave birth. A son. And do you know what name they gave him? Norvin. _Norvin_, of all things! It's hideous! I just can't make any sense of it! When we last spoke she was considering names much more decent – nothing like this!"

As she proceeded with her harangue, Grell found himself at an unexpected loss for what to think of the matter. He was not sure if this particular piece of news deserved to be fussed over to such an extent. Oh, there were some things she would impart to him that were worthy of it, without doubt…but this?

"So? What do you make of it? Is it not…unattractive?" Madam Red finished, finding the most basic word there was to describe her feelings regarding the name. She crossed her arms in a huff.

She wanted his opinion? Grell couldn't even figure for himself what his impression was, and what was more perplexing was that he didn't know why. _Was_ it really so bad a name?

He had certainly heard worse.

"I suppose it will indeed attract some unwanted attention," he offered, it being the most objective response he could supply.

"Of course it will; there's no denying that," she replied, rolling her eyes. "And make no mistake, I'm not one to say that plain, dull names are always best, but a…_singular_ one can easily be delightful, or distasteful."

He couldn't have kept from cringing if he had tried. _Oh, my honorable lady! Your words – how piercingly cruel they are!_

Grell realized that he was beginning to feel sorry for the child, and the reason why had now become obvious. Like he, the boy would just have to find a way to bear a name so out of the ordinary.

It may have been his lack of response to her resolute declaration, or it may have been some strange, lost look he was displaying, but in any case Madam Red was now staring at him incredulously. "You really don't agree that it's an awful name, do you?"

The butler shifted his weight uneasily. It seemed that he had no choice after all. "Well…at least he was given a name less…eccentric…than, say, 'Grell'." He smiled a little, distortedly, and shrugged.

In truth, Grell was simply tired of his name. He was tired of the peculiar ring it emitted when rolled off the tongue, tired of its unconventional appearance when written on paper. More still, he never found himself eager to behold those baffled, somewhat disbelieving expressions he received whenever introducing himself or being introduced. Sometimes he wondered whether the name was even real at all. It was certainly clear that no one had ever heard it before. Even if it was made up, he would have liked to know how and why it had been thought of…but there was no one to ask, seeing as how he had apparently had it already when he'd arrived at the orphanage, making it impossible to glean anything in the way of explanation. And however used to it he was by now, even he could never get past its bizarreness. Whatever its origins, it was just too…_different_ for its own good.

The noblewoman's face contorted in surprise. "You don't like your name, then?" She allowed her folded arms to drop to her sides.

The crooked smile melting away, Grell sighed wearily and placed the polishing rag and the spoon he had been gripping onto the table before him. "I don't know. I suppose I think, at times, that it's simply too unusual." He turned halfway around and gazed meditatively at himself in the square mirror set in the center of the sideboard. In an equally pensive tone, he contemplated, "I always believed that I looked more like…a Daniel, yes. Or perhaps a Frederick."

As she stood there observing him, realization finally dawned upon Madam Red. It seemed that all her thoughts and her words on the current subject, when viewed in the same light as her very own, ever-present servant, were rendered contradictory – in some sense, anyway. It had completely escaped her – she had completely forgotten –

"No – I disagree with that. You – your name – is an exception," she stated, haltingly but firmly, at the same time working to gather her briefly scattered thoughts.

Grell quickly turned back to face her, his thin brown eyebrows shooting upward; plainly, it was his turn to be caught by surprise. "You – I mean, my lady, you – don't believe that it sounds like – like – like the name of some repulsive creature out of a swamp?" he asked in anxiety.

"What?!" Madam Red exclaimed. Just how flat could this man possibly trample his own self-esteem?! "No…no, I don't," she replied, a bit slowly. "Listen…I will confess to you that I did think your name very odd at first," she told him frankly. It was an unavoidable, undeniable fact. As could only be expected, Grell deflated considerably upon hearing this, and sorrowfully glanced down at the many shining, sharp-edged utensils lying on the table. Not finished, the lady continued, rumination coloring her voice. "And then…well, to be honest it is difficult to clearly explain, but…I feel as though I almost…_forgot_ about it, being so constantly busy keeping up with your…_escapades_." Appropriately, the butler took that as the cue to flush in accustomed shame, and, inhaling, prepared to start furiously apologizing.

Madam Red hardly took notice, prying into old and obscure memories as deeply as she was, and interrupted him before he could even begin. "And when I think about it now, well…while it is still unusual, for whatever reason it doesn't seem quite as out-of-the-way as it once did. Perhaps it's because I know you better now? Or because I've become so used to it?" She paused and reflected another moment more, trying her utmost to make solid sense of it all, before shaking her head. "Anyway, I would not call it monstrous, and neither are you a monster. All right?"

Grell, the need to bemoan his existence forgotten for an instant, wasn't entirely sure that he understood this endeavor at an explanation. In a sense, she was still contradicting what she had expressed previously, and it really didn't seem fair that he was an exception only because she had come to know him to some degree…and by some heaven-granted miracle, not totally detest him. But then, she seemed to have found accurately communicating her thoughts to be something of a struggle herself…

Madam Red could only smile wryly, seeing that he was not thoroughly convinced. "Perhaps in the future I will find a better way to put it to words. But don't you think I would have eventually found something different to call you – or hired another butler altogether – if I had decided that I really disliked _your_ name that much," – and here the shade of irony seemed to lift just slightly from her features – "_Grell_?"

He still felt sorry for poor Norvin.

…but possibly, just possibly, he could come to believe that what she had said about _him_ was sincere – no matter how inexplicable a contradiction it might be.

"…p-perhaps."

/

**It amazes me that I can make a single scene drag on for so long. This happens every single time. **

**I think I may have made Madam Red a little too nice. But I couldn't leave Grell all depressed, either. Don't ask me what the point of this chapter was, because even I don't know.**

**One other note: while researching, I found out that in these times, if the master or lady of the house didn't like a servant's name or thought it was inappropriate for whatever reason, he or she would choose some other name to call that servant. Learning that bit of information was very helpful in writing the ending.**


	8. A Trial to be Weathered

Rarely was a winter day in London found to be what most residents would classify as "pleasant". On the contrary, the season was such a gloomy, gray, sodden thing. Fierce winds continually swept through the cold, dark streets and whistled through the tops of what trees might be found in the city, and the precipitation was much too fond of delivering itself in the form of rain and sleet. Snow, when it so chose to descend and grace this landscape of cobblestone and brick, was almost a relief, as walking through a falling of the white powder did not feel nearly as much like the assault that the pounding of rain droplets was.

All this one yawning, sighing butler was contemplating as he retrieved his drab brown cloak from its hook and secured it over and around his thin frame. He had already grown tired of journeying outside into the damp, often foggy climate each day, and here it was still only early January. Happily however, today proved to be one of the somewhat less disgusting days of the season: with the exception of a few scattered, slate-hued clouds in the distance, the sky was clear, the sun brightly shining during its daily albeit short-lived presence. A fine layer of snow covered the earth, obscuring most of the faded greens and dull browns beneath. Grell tightened the black wool scarf around his neck.

It was half-past seven in the morning. A broom was in his hand.

Once out-of-doors, he promptly closed the servant's door to prevent the brisk air from entering the house. The street was filled with the regular sights and sounds of morning coach and foot traffic, which never seemed to lessen no matter what the conditions were. What snow had previously carpeted the road was already reduced to slush by relentlessly moving wheels and boots. And in the next several minutes, hopefully Madam Angelina's walkway and the sidewalk in front of her home would be free of it as well, creating a clear and even path for her distinguished feet to tread upon.

Knowing that no time was to be lost, Grell took only the briefest of moments to adjust his winter gloves before beginning to brush the snow off of the front steps and walk, miniature drifts piling up on either side as he did so. How much simpler it was to handle this instrument rather than a shovel, he absentmindedly thought. Last year had unfortunately called for one after a peculiarly great snowfall, and Grell did not recall the number that had been done on his poor back very fondly, no indeed.

He was moving along, and progress was steadily being made, and that was when it unexpectedly – and most roughly – hit him.

Quite in the literal sense, that was. He was ill-prepared for the sudden blow, or for the sharp and bitter cold sensation colliding with the side of his head. Grell yelped in shock, at the same time feeling a small globular object rolling down and then off of his shoulder. He jerked his head over and downward, immediately catching sight of the offending thing where it lay, now harmless, on the ground. It was nothing but a mere…snowball.

But how that had _stung_! It was no accident, to be sure! Grell raised his gaze, turning to look in the direction that he was sure the assailant behind the freezing weapon must be.

Only a perfect dunce (which at that moment Grell most certainly was not) wouldn't have spotted them. Three children, not waiting for the miffed adult to meet their eyes or to reveal any type of reaction, abruptly turned and pattered down the frosty pavement as fast as their short legs could take them. Two small boys, and a girl, none of them more than ten years old and no younger than six, if Grell had to reckon. Judging from the coats and other garments they wore, plain yet of decent quality, they must belong to the city's middle class. Children of shop owners, clerks, teachers. Shivering slightly in the chilly air, he watched their retreat, high-pitched laughter clearly audible. In moments they had rounded the corner and were gone.

Emitting a grunt of mild annoyance, Grell wiped the trickle of water left behind from the side of his face. Blasted mites, running about and causing mischief. He had never had anything against children; he was somewhat fond of them, actually, not to mention he often sympathized with the countless urchins that inhabited the squalid, pitiless London streets. But the action of the ones he had seen just now was nothing short of unacceptable. Kicking the snowy missile aside, he turned back around, and before long became caught up in his task once more.

The event was all but forgotten soon enough, replaced by the briefest episode of self-exaltation, when Madam Red offhandedly remarked on the relatively well-swept walk.

Now, if only he had remembered to fill and bring out the ceramic hot water bottle to place at her feet during the drive…

/

He was granted only five days until fate decided to continue its cruel game – for this was when, while stopping to buy himself a sandwich from a street vendor, he was unsuspectingly met with a snowball to the chest.

The latter part of the same week brought with it two more of the things, as he left the house to go retrieve the madam from work.

And not long after – had he even made it to Wednesday? – came a merciless pelting in front of the greengrocer's aimed at his head, the moment that he made his exit.

He supposed he was fortunate in that he was not ambushed by the malicious youngsters every day. The snow, after all, would not remain for more than a couple of days before melting, and when he did come across the three children, they were usually carrying skates or pulling a sled, indicating that they indeed had better things to do. But their meetings still occurred too often for his liking.

Needless to say, Grell was becoming more and more paranoid when it came to leaving the house.

"I don't understand it," he was miserably moaning as he arrived home one afternoon after running a quick errand. He trudged down toward the kitchen, where he set down the just-bought items before beginning to free himself from the confines of his winter outerwear. "I just _can't _understand it. Alas, it's punishment! It's nothing but God's most creative form of torment, handed down to this deplorable wretch that I am. And already I am guaranteed to be laden with trials each and every day, from the near crack of dawn – no, before dawn! since by then I am already awake – until the moment I shut my eyes at night. All I've done – it's retribution for all I've done and all I am…must I be so severely reminded that the day I was born was cursed?! Oh, this is worse than imprisonment, than electrocution, than –"

"Grell, _what _are you are blithering on about in here?!" Out of nowhere appeared Madam Red, a hand on one hip, exhibiting the oft-displayed scowl. The butler instantly ceased his griping and sprang back a step, startled, before coming to attention. "Ah! Madam! I-I apologize! I apologize most profusely!" He bowed.

"Yes, I know you do. Would you be so kind to explain to me, however, what it is you know about imprisonment or electrocution? Or – at least, what you know about imprisonment? What is the matter with you now?!" Quite obviously, if her mood had not been foul before she had entered, it certainly was now.

Here Grell would have normally shrunk back a bit at her irked tone, but today the urge to do so was replaced by matters of greater weight. He shook his head sorrowfully. "The troubles of a mere, pitiable servant ought not to be of any importance to one such as yourself, my lady. I will be all right…perhaps…come spring, that is, I would imagine…"

"Convincing words from someone who was just weeping and wailing about being tormented. We really must do something about these dramatic tendencies of yours. Now come, tell me what the problem is. You can't expect to not explain yourself after being such a fussbudget."

He hesitated, unsure whether it was in his best interest to share the ongoing issue. But it lasted only a moment. "Oh, Madam, how truly awful it is! I never knew that it was possible for ones so young to harbor such ill-will toward a complete stranger!" And, in not a few words, he went on to lament the details of his misfortune.

Madam Red eventually cut short the monologue. "All right, Grell, good enough. I understand what you're saying. Now listen to me and don't worry yourself about it; this matter will pass over soon, I am sure. They are children and they don't mean anything by it. And I must doubt you are the only one they are pestering, either. Although, you may well be the only one being thrown into such a tizzy."

She didn't understand. What had he expected? "But my lady – so many times – it's outrageous –" he was sputtering now – "and besides, it's not as if – well, you see – oh – oh, never mind." Grell slumped against the counter in defeat, the image of despair.

The refined noblewoman, who (as can be imagined) was not wild about being drawn into her butler's exceptional…situations, heaved a sigh, wondering in the back of her mind what a typical day in his life must really feel like to Grell. "There's nothing I can advise you but to ignore them," she spoke. "It's nothing to become unhinged over. Now – we are finished discussing this. It's time you resumed your duties."

He could only nod dolefully, realizing that no more assistance or patience would come from his employer, who was already leaving the room. _She _may be able to say such things. With her steadfast resolve and innate authoritative manner, she had most likely never cowered beneath the menaces of a bully. But Grell knew what that was like, and while the majority of those situations were now behind him, it was still difficult, sometimes, to abandon that sense of being preyed upon.

All of it was swiftly becoming ludicrous beyond comprehension.

Suddenly, the winter rain showers, which did not fail to stubbornly wash over London in the meantime, almost seemed a thing of beauty.

/

Candles. Soap – bars for both she and for himself. Lozenges, from the same druggist's. Tea – both herbal and Earl Grey, and black if he found himself with change to spare, which he had. A hardy, stiff-fibered brush to clean that monstrosity of a mess that was the kitchen stove. A visit, something which was very important that he not neglect, to the milliner's to see if the crimson silk hat she had custom-ordered was ready yet (as suspected, it wasn't). A new silver serving plate. Raspberry jam. And, last on the list he now reviewed for a final time, was chocolate. Visits to the sugary haven that was the confectioner's were more or less rare, but today a reason had presented itself, and strict orders had been issued:

"_Grell, I must inform you that Elizabeth means to come calling sometime near the end of the week – I just received a letter from her today. I want to see to it that I have some sort of gift to offer her. I suppose…let me see…I suppose that a small box of chocolates will be appropriate enough. Be sure to choose the dark variety; if memory serves me, that is what she prefers. Come now, why that long, glum face? Elizabeth is a delightful girl, and she always seems just as happy to see you as she does me. Perhaps she will even bring you another new neckerchief!"_

Grell's face had been neither long nor glum at that moment; rather, it would be best described as appalled. Madam Red's niece was, perhaps, delightful in a sense, but she could also be quite…_overzealous_. She had a habit of recommending to (forcing upon) most people she knew what she believed to be the most attractive styles of the day. The strong-mindedness she possessed reflected her aunt's to some degree, although in her enthusiasm she was often oblivious to the opinions of others.

If he found himself with another magenta-and-yellow striped necktie (where had it come from, anyhow? The circus?), Grell didn't know _what_ he would do.

Sighing, he slipped the list of items into his pocket. Over his other arm he carried a large basket containing the aforementioned items, which wouldn't have been as hefty as it was if it was not for the new plate. Carefully, he proceeded to edge his way around a shining patch of ice in his path. He was on the madam's block now, nearly home.

He cast a glance at the sky, and a sudden alarm set in. Just how long had he lingered at the shops? Inwardly chastising himself, Grell reached beneath his cloak and inside his frock-coat, pulling out a certain object.

He hadn't been able to resist purchasing it. What butler could have? The first sight of it had made him all but gush with admiration, and as soon as he was able, he had boldly and gleefully claimed it as his own. The silver pocket watch, bearing a plain, sleek cover and engraved with an ornamental shield and scroll design on the back, caught the light and gleamed in his hand. It hadn't been _the _most expensive watch for sale, by any means, but Grell had always wanted one of his own and for some reason this one had greatly appealed to him. What butler would be found without a pocket watch, after all? He flipped open the cover, and sucked in the chilled air through his teeth; he was most definitely behind time.

From up ahead, a sound was heard. Grell raised his eyes – and involuntarily halted in his tracks. They were waiting for him. All three of them, rosy-cheeked and deceptively cherubic-looking. Directly in front of the entrance leading to the house.

Why must they be blocking the way inside?! Couldn't he have at least been left that?! The particular brand of anxiety and dread that he had come to know since January was again resurfacing. Rooted to the spot, Grell braced himself.

SMACK!

Right in the shoulder.

A laugh escaped an adolescent throat.

He could see them moving to gather up more snow. No good would come from simply standing here. He must get inside. Perhaps, with some luck, he could dodge what they threw; he _had _managed to avoid a couple of the things previously…

Taking a breath, he opened his mouth, something he had not done before but found within himself to do now. _"Out of the way!"_ he yelled, simultaneously taking a step and ducking as a snowball sailed through the air where his head had been. If only it wasn't for this confounded basket he held, he could have moved much more nimbly. Seeing him advance, the youths began to back up, expressions becoming wary. After several steps more and a shout of "Get yourselves _out_ of here!" the girl and one boy discarded their ammunition and took flight, but the remaining boy decided to attempt one more hit. Grell, not far from the entrance to the property now, made the best leap out of the way that his occupied hands would allow him.

He was clear of the glittering ball of snow.

He was not, however, clear of the glossy stretch of sidewalk dead underfoot. The breath left his lungs, his feet left the ground, the basket swung heavily in his hand. And then he was on his back, staring up at the overcast gray sky, the sound of newly-purchased objects crashing and toppling beside him. His back and rear confirmed that it had been a hard fall. From somewhere there came a high-pitched gasp, and the sound of boots rushing over pavement was heard, rapidly fading away.

Grell lay stunned, but not for long. With certain muscles aching, he clambered upright and in a panic, immediately examined the fallen goods. By some miracle, everything had remained intact, without so much as a crack in the jar of jam. With a whispered exclamation of "Oh, thank heavens!" he straightaway set about gathering everything up, and stood, acutely aware now of the ice beside him.

And then, he saw it. Nearly forgotten in his tumble, it lay on the very spot where he had landed, face-up, still open. Grell's heart, having just settled down somewhat, again pounded in sickened anticipation as he forced himself to approach.

His worst fears confirmed, he lifted the watch. Aghast, he observed the broken glass that had once protected the display, crushed by his weight, and the hands beneath that no longer moved. He turned it over, tiny bits of glass falling. The front and back were each marked by a number of scrapes and scratches, marring the surfaces, the metal no longer perfectly smooth. His prized timepiece had been reduced to a piece of scrap, blemished and broken, beyond hope of repair.

Frowning severely and fuming to himself – something the humble man was rarely if ever known to do – Grell flung open the door of the house. Fortunately, Madam Red was not at home to see this rather violent act, but it would have been impossible for anyone within a five-mile radius not to hear the thunderous bang that was produced as it slammed back against the wall.

A change, far from mild, had taken place within the meek butler's soul.

Those…_miscreants_ had clearly shown themselves not to be finished with him yet…but as of this moment, he was most definitely finished.

Finished mourning.

/

She was unsure of what exactly it was, but some part of her servant's temperament was not quite the same as before. While he still managed to drop things, forget things, misplace things, and trip over things (and at times over nothing), the typical self-deprecating outburst that followed each disaster was only halfhearted at best. And what was more, he gave no mention, even after a period of several days, of wanting to end his own life.

Before, he would grieve. Now, he did nothing but brood.

Something was wrong, and it must not be allowed to continue. But though she told him more than once that she would listen, he did not want to speak about it.

Grell had decided that he could take no more nonsense. He could not recall ever feeling quite the same degree of bitterness that he did now. He was staggered at his own ability to become so furious, really, even as he reminded himself that it was always possible to save up for another watch if he so desired. Deep down, he knew that he ought to forgive the rascals for inadvertently being the cause of the incident – but at the same time, didn't feel anywhere near ready yet.

And then, one cold morning, an idea revealed itself. It was a silly one, Grell knew. But he didn't care.

He had awoken early as usual, and despite the blackness outside, detected flurries of snow sweeping down past his window, melting as the collided with the panes…and he did not hesitate.

It was Saturday. Madam did not work on this day of the week, and after the ritual of breakfast was done and over with, Grell wandered off to do some dusting, content to leave her at her desk as she busily reviewed the household finances. In this way the morning wore on, and eventually passed.

All too soon, the commandeering voice could be heard. "Grell, be a dear and run to Mrs. Andrews's place. I am thoroughly convinced that my hat is now complete. The girls over there cannot possibly be so lazy as to keep their customers waiting this long – and especially with their reputation! Come, here are the remaining dues owed to them. Go now, and please, do try to be quick about it…"

These instructions having been given, Grell found himself on his way out the servant's door. It was close to noon, and the snow had ceased falling a short while ago. It had become his habit in recent times to peep through the iron bars of the fence before emerging at the top of the stairs that ascended to street level, and this he now did, conducting a hasty and surreptitious survey of his surroundings.

He gritted his teeth. There could be no mistaking those short figures in their brightly-colored hats and scarves, even as they attempted to hide behind a carriage that was parked further down in front of the neighbor's house.

Inhaling deeply and steeling himself, he continued mounting the stairs until he stood upon the walk. The grinning (or smirking, as he saw it) minors popped out without delay, already readying snowballs and starting to giggle.

Standing there, Grell felt his indignation flare.

It is possible that the adult's next movements, unforeseen by the children, caused them to pause in confusion, but in any case, Grell didn't allow them to make the first move. Crouching swiftly, he reached down to the top step he had just come from; when his hand reappeared, it gripped its own crystallized projectile. Concealed here on the first few stairs lay his own arsenal of snowballs, hurriedly formed in the wee hours of the morning, when he had first set foot outside. He rose, and aimed his gaze at his hitherto unchallenged opponents, who stared back uncertainly.

Witheringly, the butler smiled, not unlike a cat to mice.

Upon seeing the snowball quickly approaching, the three of them jumped out of the way, and although this was disappointing, Grell was still highly pleased to note their expressions of shock. _Ah yes, do you see now? Discipline comes not only from parents and schoolmasters, you little imps!_

However, the girl and the two boys wasted no time, and promptly began to counterfire. The realization came to the slightly frustrated Grell that they were not going to leave easily, at least not before answering his unspoken call for vengeance.

Another pre-made snowball was snatched up, and the battle raged on.

They bobbed and wove as best they could on the narrow strip of sidewalk, betraying their usual energy. Not long into the fight, however, Grell made an unfortunate discovery: his own accuracy was less than impressive. In fact, it was no better now than it had been back when he was their age, when he would participate in this very sport. Not one of his attempts had yet met its mark. Furthermore, the limited space where he stood made it difficult to dodge; one wrong move would send him plunging backward down the stairs. And while this factor really couldn't be helped, he began to blame himself for it all the same.

Minutes went by, the errand for Madam Red long forgotten. The children, far from intimidated as he had wished for, seemed to be very much enjoying themselves. On the contrary, Grell, not nearly as enthusiastic as when he had begun, felt battered and depressed, and was only now becoming aware of how silly and immature he must look to those citizens who had surely stopped to stare. _If the madam were to see this, she'd kill me! Oh, but perhaps that would be for the best! I'm useless anyway! Not even these brats will take me seriously! And it's all such a shame, for what cute brats they are! Oh, I just don't know what I'm doing – any – more!_

As this thought passed through his mind, the discouraged butler bent and reached for a snowball – the last in his supply – and, with the remainder of his focus slipping away, hurled it toward his young adversaries.

"Ee-YARGHHHH!"

A cry! Could that mean he had not missed? No – wait a moment – !

Time stood still, and an unearthly sort of cold seeped into his bones.

A hand reached up, and wiped away traces of water from a face, a small feminine face bordered by elegantly-fashioned blonde curls – one which Grell was quite familiar with. His own face instantly contorted into one of pure horror. No…not _her…_

Few had heard him scream more loudly.

"I'M SO SORRY!"

His ability to move suddenly restored, Grell covered ground like never had been seen, tearing his way down the sidewalk to where Madam Red's niece stood. The group of aggravating youths, badly startled by the volume of his shriek and his mad dash, shot from the scene. The trembling servant knelt before the girl, whose blue eyes, ordinarily cheerful, were bright with tears; seeing them only heightened Grell's repugnance of himself. "M-Miss Elizabeth…forgive me, I beg you…it was an accident…I would never…are you hurt? Please tell me you aren't hurt! Oh Miss Elizabeth, I'm so SORRY! So SORRY! Please, do not hold back your insults! I know I deserve them! I deserve your most profound hatred! I…"

Elizabeth Middleford stood stunned, all at once overwhelmed by the intensity of the blubbering man before her. Blinking back the unshed tears, she at last gathered her wits, and attempted to make him do the same.

"Mister Grell! Mister Grell, please stop! I'm not angry, really! Please, stop saying such terrible things! I forgive you!"

"…you do?" Grell choked out.

"Yes!"

"Oh…oh, Miss Elizabeth, you are truly the most kindhearted soul in all the world, after your aunt," he returned appreciatively, standing up. "However, I fear it may be long before I am able to pardon myself…"

"You don't need to feel that way about it, if it really was just an accident, like you say," Elizabeth replied, hoping to sound comforting enough that he would not set himself on fire as he had threatened. Despite having witnessed many of his outpourings of emotion, she still considered him her favorite domestic and did not like imagining him doing away with himself. "Besides, it didn't hurt much," she reassured. "I was only surprised. But…Grell, why are you out here throwing snowballs?"

He sighed. "It's a rather long story, miss. I know I must have looked absurd…" And for once making an effort to be concise, he summarized the abuse he had endured.

Elizabeth appeared bewildered. "How…strange that they keep coming to find you," she finally commented.

"Yes, is it not? And even after trying to feed them a taste of their own medicine, I have no idea whether it truly did any good!...oh dear, look there, they haven't even left yet…"

He gestured, and she turned. Down at the corner, the pests were loitering around a streetlamp, peering at them.

Elizabeth frowned. Slowly, she stooped, scraping up a handful of snow and packing it in her mittened hands. Her gaze never wavered from the three figures.

"Ah…Miss Elizabeth…?"

She did not reply, but straightened. The hand holding the snowball gradually pulled back. There was a pause. Then, her arm became a blur.

Less than a second later, one of the boys visibly stumbled back. He had been struck squarely in the chest.

Before Grell could register it, Elizabeth had more snow in her hand, and the second boy was also socked in the chest in the same manner, stumbling back and bumping into the lamppost.

The two parties stood at least ten meters apart.

And as the well-bred, finely-attired girl made to repeat her action a third time, the troublemakers, not so dastardly as they once had been, hastily turned tail and fled.

Elizabeth sighed gravely, and shaking her head, faced Grell once again. Her expression then changed to one of curiosity. "Hmm? What's the matter?"

If it were possible for one's jaw to plummet all the way to the ground, Grell's would have done just that. Wide-eyed, he stammered, "Wh…where did you learn to – to – _do_ that, miss? That was…!"

She smiled. "I can do lots of pretty neat things, actually. You said that your aim wasn't too good, so I thought I could help. Maybe they will think twice before coming back, at least for a while. Oh! If you like, I can teach you how to throw like that, too! It takes a lot of practice, though…"

Grell smiled back, weakly. He had gone from being a victim to having a young girl win his war for him. To anyone else, this would be shameful. To him, it _almost_ was…but not quite. And that was only because, well, one comrade was much better than none at all – especially when one had taken as much fire as he had, alone.

Would next winter bring peace? Would he again be able to enjoy what snow might adorn London at that time? For now, it would remain unknown. But he certainly hoped so, on both counts.

…children always grow up, eventually. Still, perhaps he would take Elizabeth up on her generous offer.

"Let's go inside, Mister Grell! I have presents for both you and Aunt Anne! You didn't seem too happy with what I brought last time, but you're going to love this, I promise!"

The color drained from his face. "Er…Miss Elizabeth…um, I was wondering…in the future, might we make suggestions as to what we might like to receive? You see, I could really use a new pock-"

"That would be no fun at all! I like to surprise people with gifts!" Elizabeth picked up two parcels, which she had dropped to the pavement when hit with the snowball, and headed toward the house. "But I will tell you this: be prepared for the most _fabulous _hair ribbon you have ever seen!"

Grell grasped the wrought iron fence for support.

It was bound to be a very long afternoon, most likely with pink things and frills to make it complete.

/

**Chapter 8 is finally finished. If there is one thing I learned from writing it, it's that it is very hard to write about snow in the summer. I also discovered that writing about Elizabeth is kinda fun.**

**As always, reviews are appreciated!**


	9. Two Short Scenes

**If these seem random, it's because they are. They're just simple scenes that I thought up and didn't know what to do with, since neither of them are really long enough to stand alone as one-shots. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy them.**

**Also, the second one, as you will see, contains a somewhat more obvious hint of Grell/Madam Red than usual. I couldn't help it. ^^;**

/

Grell could not conceal his great and obvious interest as Madam Red handed him yet another photograph, another remnant from a time long before the servant had become familiar with the name of Durless. This one was of a young woman, and one easily identified: a Lady Red who here appeared to be in her early twenties, propped up in a chair he did not recognize in a drawing room he did not recognize. It must have been inside her parents' house, which seemed to be the setting of most of the other images in the collection. She wore a handsome dress, and her features were just slightly softer. Her expression, however, was solemn, her mouth a straight line, but even so it was impossible for one not to detect the fiery spark in her eyes that betrayed a lively spirit. Her shining hair, which Grell imagined must have been long and lovely when unbound and flowing, was wound up into a modest bun behind her head, while slim side-bangs hung neatly at each side of her face.

He admired this precious relic of the past a few moments longer, distantly wondering how she and he might have gotten along had they encountered each other when just a bit younger, under different circumstances perhaps. The only thing that could have enhanced this photograph, and all the rest, would have been the capability to view it in color. How dull, how dreary monochrome was! Memories, after all, were not meant to be recorded and preserved in such ghastly shades. And it was then that another subject of intrigue, although entirely unrelated to any of his musings thus far, manifested in his mind. "Hmm," he murmured to himself, and looked up at the woman before him thoughtfully.

"Excuse me, my lady…but may I inquire something of you?"

Madam Angelina glanced up at him mildly from where she sat behind the desk, on the surface of which a black leather-covered album lay open and a myriad of stray pictures were scattered about. "You may."

Attempting to be tactful, the curious butler gave voice to his question. "Why…ah, that is, whatever made you decide to have your hair cut?" It wasn't _that_ personal of a thing to ask…was it?

"Why I had my hair cut?" Madam Red repeated, quite evidently caught off guard. She tilted her head just slightly, rich wine-colored eyes going blank to a degree as she sorted through her memories for the answer. "Well, some years ago, I fell ill with a very high fever. My hair was cut in order to provide some coolness, and I came to like the look so much that I've kept it ever since." She made a face of pretended hurt. "Why? Do you think it doesn't suit me?"

"What? Oh dear me no, that's not it at _all_!" Grell exclaimed, strongly opposing this notion. He went on to wave his hands before him in a violent frenzy, nearly dropping the photograph, which flapped about in the air. Such an impression had never, _would_ never chance upon his mind! "That is not what I was trying to imply! You look splendid with short hair! Exquisite! Marvelous, in fact!" Perceiving her stare, which was bewildered and yet also flat at the same time, he realized that he was exhibiting overexcited behavior – a natural but much frowned-upon tendency of his – yet again, and promptly dropped his arms to his sides. "A-All I thought was, you seemed to look so very grand when your hair was longer, as well," he explained a bit more calmly. "Possessing a different yet equal sort of fineness, you know. So…I just wondered."

There was a moment of stillness then, in which Madam Red did nothing but simply behold the now somewhat-smiling butler, and at the same time contemplate this sudden onslaught of (exaggerated…?) flattery. Then, the smirk appeared.

"I'll tell you what, Grell. I will consider letting my hair grow out again – on the day that you cut yours."

The image of the younger Anne, in all her quaintness, slipped to the floor.

Any and all remarks relating to hair were discreetly avoided – by one of them at least – from that day forth.

/

Madam Red was a physician, not a psychologist. But right about now, she was starting to wish that she had looked into that profession, if only a little.

She hadn't even meant to stop and look in the way she had. She had had no reason whatsoever to pause. She was still puzzling over it, wondering why simply pushing the door fully open and calling out to him had suddenly seemed such a difficult act. If she had only done so, she could have killed the moment before it even occurred and saved herself this frustration.

Grell, her butler – her servant – had been standing at the bookshelves of the modestly-sized library within the drawing room, conveniently placed within the range of view that the small gap in the door permitted. One arm, crossed against him, supported the elbow of the other, the fist of which in turn upheld his chin. In this casual, deliberative stance, he appeared to be considering the many tomes lined up before him, his features calm and thoughtful. And it was something about this expression he wore that caused her to hesitate and to stare.

Why had she never noticed it before?

As she watched, he shifted his arms from their previous positions and reached forward, selecting a volume from the shelf. He skimmed the cover, and then took a moment to raise a hand up and briefly rub one eye, in the process pushing his glasses up and momentarily exposing an unfamiliar variation of himself, before allowing them to fall back into place. The thought skirted the back of Madam Red's mind that she had never once seen him without his glasses on. And then he opened the book, leafed through the first few pages, and began to read, an air of concentration wrapping itself about him.

His eyes were not worried or otherwise disquieted in any way. His face held no tension, and seemed to be at such a quiet ease that she might venture to call the look one of solemnity. There was such an absolute placidity about him, something rarely if ever seen, and it brought to light an astoundingly different aspect of him, _changing_ his appearance somehow. And, well…it caused him to look…rather attractive.

She couldn't believe it had escaped her until now.

A strange shiver passed through her, and she found that tearing away her gaze was impossible. But then he suddenly looked up, blinking, and saw her, and at once became the Grell she knew again, the spell broken.

"Oh – my lady! Forgive me for not seeing you…do you require assistance?" But by that time she had forgotten what she'd come for.

And now that she had seen it, she couldn't expel the fascinating image from her mind, and couldn't stop wondering how she had missed this perception of him, had been blind to it all this time, up until this day. She didn't understand it, and neither did she understand why she had liked the sight so much.

Madam Red was a physician, and not a psychologist.

/

**Historical note: Victorian women always kept their hair long, as it was a sign of female virtue, but when they got seriously ill with fevers they would indeed have it cut. That was the only time I believe they wore it short. I guess Madam Red got away with it in the actual series for other reasons, somehow…**

**Also, the next butler!Grell story I plan to put up will not be part of this series, but will stand alone as its own story because of its length. If you're interested, please look out for it in the coming weeks, or add me to your Author Alert.**

**In the meantime, please leave a review on these scenes. Thank you!**


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